I move in and out of sunlight, and it’s that white light that says its morning. Greyish white light – in and out – chopping at the floor. The trees stand tall on either side, crackles shiver underfoot, the bones of leaves, jawbones skulls of tiny creatures. All ground to dust; mulch for the forest to eat.

I grew hooves when I came here, and now my head is hard at the temples with the beginnings of things. But I can’t see myself, so I wouldn’t know. I’m invisible. There are people who crunch along on frosty mornings – dog walkers, runners. Then there are the men from the timber yard. They come to the edge of the woodland, marking trunks with piss-yellow spray. They don’t see me – I can move straight past them now. I wonder if they hear a rustling, but they never look up. They’d never know it was me.